


A Love Song in Seventeen Parts, for Narrator and Chorus of Marines

by riverlight



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, YAGKYAS 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ecstasy of fumbling, or, a Brad/Nate love story in seventeen parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love Song in Seventeen Parts, for Narrator and Chorus of Marines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Veronibell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veronibell/gifts).



> Written for veronibell as part of the 2012 YAGKYAS challenge. Veronibell: hope you enjoy it! Thanks so much to mementis and nursedarry for all their thorough and helpful betas. Thanks, ladies; I really appreciate it.
> 
> As always: this is a fictional story based on the portrayed-on-tv versions of characters described in a book about actual real-life people. In other words: this ain't real.

1.  
In the Marines, there are good superior officers and terrible superior officers, and some who are just indifferent. It's a gamble. Sometimes they're useless, just a tinny voice on the other end of the comms. Ignorable. Other times they're incompetent; this is rare, though not as rare as you'd think. 

You learn pretty quickly how to tell what kind of person a CO is. Very occasionally you get someone who actually justifies the term "superior"; this is rarer even than getting someone incompetent, but it happens. When you get a good CO, you thank your lucky stars. And then you do your best to watch his back, because you want to keep a good CO for as long as possible. In peacetime, it means a team that works well together, opportunities for advanced training, maybe equipment that's a step above the norm, or some cool toys to play with.

In wartime, it's even more important to have a good CO. In wartime, a good CO keeps you from getting killed. So you watch his back, try to keep the shit from piling up too deep, try not to let the more belt-fed men get too crazy on his watch. You protect him as much as you can, and in return, he protects you. If you have a good CO, you're more likely to come home in one piece. So what this means is: when you hear you're going into combat, you get down on your knees and pray you get a good CO. 

If you're not a praying man, well. Maybe now's the time to get a little faith. Or maybe you're fucked. 

But then again, you're a Marine going into combat. So you're probably fucked anyway. 

2.  
Brad's first impression of Lieutenant Fick is that he's young. This is accurate: Fick _is_ young. Three years younger than Brad, in fact, which on the one hand is pretty normal for the Corps, and on the other hand is alarming, or would be if Brad let himself think about it. So he doesn't let himself think about it. 

And anyway young doesn't mean incompetent. Brad's second impression is Gunny Wynn's slanted half-smile when he talks to Fick, the honest respect in his voice. And Brad respects the shit out of Gunny Wynn, so. Brad decides he's cautiously optimistic. 

Could be a hell of a lot worse. 

3.  
"Sergeant Colbert," Fick says to him. "I hear you've been checking up on me." 

This is true. Just because Fick seems competent so far doesn't mean Brad doesn't want to know what he's getting into. Fick may be calm and unruffled now, but any jerkoff can be easy-going when the sun's setting over the ocean and there's plenty of coffee in the mess. If Brad needs to take defensive measures, better he know now than having to figure it out in the middle of some Hajji firefight. "Yes, sir, I have been," he says, and keeps his voice even. 

"Well?" Fick says. His tone is light. "What did you discover?"

"Nothing scandalous, sir," Brad says. He lists it off on his fingers. "You went to Dartmouth. You're from Maryland originally. You did well at OCS; you were in the top ten percent of your cohort. Your first mission was to East Timor." To see what Fick will do, he adds: "You got yourself some ribbons in Afghanistan." 

Fick just raises an eyebrow. "All true," he says, agreeably, but doesn't elaborate, which: interesting. So he's humble, or at least pretending to be. "I also prefer cats to dogs, would rather watch classic movies than modern ones, prefer dark beer to light, and have been told I'm the epitome of someone with their sun in Cancer, though your guess is as good as mine as to what that means." He grins a little. "And I'm single. Anything else you want to know?"

"No, sir," Brad says. It's late evening, pink and lavender shading the horizon over the Pacific, but there's still enough light for him to see Fick's face. His gaze is sharp, but he's smiling. 

"Anything else you need to know, Brad, you ask me," Fick says. He says it like it's an order.

Brad lets himself relax a little. Fick is, probably, all right. "Yes, sir," he says.

4.  
Platoons are like families. Sometimes you get dysfunctional families, sometimes you get healthy families. Usually, it's a little bit of both. The Sir is your father figure, of course. He gives the orders. He also keeps everyone in line, keeps the peace when necessary. If you get a good Sir, your little family ticks along happily, a nice little orderly unit of happy, healthy, trained killers. If you're less lucky, you get someone like Captain America. And doesn't that make you feel oh-so-comfortable, knowing that someone like Captain America is the one holding the leash on the barely-restrained attack dogs we call Recon Marines?

5.  
Rumors start circulating that Mattis has some crazy-ass plan to use Recon as shock troops for 1 MEF. "Fuck, homes," Ray says. "My aquatic training's gonna come in _real_ handy driving through the desert in a Humvee, you know what I'm saying?" 

"Ray," Brad says. "Ours is not to reason why." 

Ray laughs. "Shit, Brad, come on. That'd be fine if we could be sure our esteemed CO's were reasonable men. Instead, who do we get? Captain America, that's who." Ray slaps his hands together in emphasis. "And fucking Encino Man, fuck." 

Brad laughs, because it's true, and also it's far from the worst bullshit he's seen from the Marine Corps. "Well, Ray, you know what they say," he says. "Improvise, adapt, overcome. They just want to see us adapting."

By the time they step off, Brad has upgraded Fick in his head from "probably all right" to "solid," and Brad has heard enough about the shit coming down to realize that really, Fick is the least of his troubles. 

6.  
"So, uh," Reporter says, and then stops, shifts from foot to foot, pauses for a long moment. 

"What," Brad says, and doesn't make it a question. Reporter isn't bad, but Brad hopes like hell he's more eloquent in print than he is in person. 

"I was wondering what you were going to do when you get out of the Marine Corps," Reporter says.

"Haven't you heard?" Brad says. "I thought for sure these whiskey-tango trailer-park rejects would have told you by now, the way they love to talk up my reputation. The only way I'm leaving the Corps is if they pry the M4 out of my cold dead hands." He pitches his voice slightly louder.

Ray, taking a piss behind the Humvee, snorts. "Yeah, Reporter," he says, voice trailing up out of the desert darkness, "Our Bradley here is a lifer. Course, that's just 'cause he can't get any other job now that all he knows how to do is fuck shit up and kill people." 

"Yeah?" Reporter says. He darts a look at Brad, like he's not sure whether he should ask for clarification or not. Brad shrugs. 

"Though," Ray adds, reappearing from behind the victor, "the Corps _is_ supremely good at teaching people to put up with bullshit. So, you know, that's something, I guess." 

"Qualifies you for a lot of jobs," Reporter agrees, and Ray grins. "Ask me what _I'm_ gonna do when I leave the Corps, War Scribe," he says. "I mean, we all know the latte-sipping dick-smokers who read Rolling Stone are on at least five kinds of drugs just to get them through the day in their boring little houses in the suburbs. They need a little excitement in their lives. You practically have an obligation." 

Reporter takes the bait, of course. "So, uh, Corporal Person, what are you going to do when you leave the Corps?" he says, and takes out his little notepad. 

Brad leaves them to it. 

7.  
Some statistics: 

The U.S. Marine Corps takes up 6.1% of the Department of Defense budget. For that amount, it provides: 15% of ground maneuver brigades and Regimental Combat Teams; 12% of fighter planes; and 19% of attack helicopters. 

The USMC has the best-trained troops of the U.S. Armed Forces.

Since 2001, the Corps has been named in Gallup polls as the most prestigious in the eyes of American civilians, though of course most Marines aren't inclined to think that this means much, because they knew it was true anyway.

If you ask the Internet, it'll tell you that the Corps has a 36% retention rate for first-term Marines, which means that 64% of Marines leave. Given the difficulty of the job and the company they keep (the Marines are the only branch of the Armed Forces without educational requirements) this is not surprising. 

However, the Internet will also inform you that there is a retention rate of 77% for career Marines. 

Whether this is true or not you'll have to decide for yourself. 

8.  
Most of the guys, they'll do one tour, two, three maybe, then be done. Most of them have girlfriends at home, wives maybe, or babymamas, whatever the fuck. Kids, family. Real life, whatever the hell that means. As far as Brad's concerned there's nothing realer than this right here: the glittery spangle of stars overhead, the haze of his breath frosting the air, the shriek of some tiny animal getting caught by a night-time predator. Why the fuck does he need a boring 9-to-5 job, a mortgage payment, a pretty blond girlfriend? He tried that once; it didn't work. This is what's real, right here. Brotherhood, and the giddy post-battle rush of adrenaline reminding him he's alive, and the constant risk of violent death, just to add a little piquancy to the situation. Sweat and piss and jizz and blood, twenty two men holding each other's lives in their hands, and that's the realest thing he knows, that's mythology, right there, writ large. 

9.  
Sometime after Al Shatra and Ar Rifa they're on 25 percent watch and pushing twenty hours no sleep when the LT strolls up to him. "We've got probably another three towns to push through tomorrow, Brad," he says, like Brad wasn't at the fucking TL meeting, like they didn't just spend the last of the twilight looking at the same set of maps. 

"Yeah," Brad says. He got it. He's snapped to. So they schwacked a hamlet. Big fucking deal. It's war. He gets it. It's in the past.

Only the LT's changing the script. "I trust you'll be able to keep your team together tomorrow," he says. It's half statement, half question. "Keep your honor clean." And it's the tone of his voice that makes it clear what he means: it's not a thinly-veiled threat, or an order. _I trust you'll keep your men under control; if you don't, you'll answer to me._ It's a simple statement of fact. Brad lets himself relax into actual parade rest. 

The LT sees it, and smiles. "Thanks, Brad," he says, for no reason Brad can figure out. Before Brad can answer, he lopes away into the darkness.

10.  
"Why'd you come to Iraq, sir?" he says. He blames the sleep deprivation for the loss of control that leads to asking, though he's actually curious. Dartmouth to Iraq isn't a standard career path.

For a long moment, he thinks the LT won't answer. They're perched on a berm somewhere outside Qalat Sukhar, and it's only the flare of distant arty that's keeping him awake. A red glow in the darkness. "I can't answer that, Brad," he says, finally. "I thought I knew. The answer doesn't seem as compelling, right now." 

"You regret it?" Brad asks, before he can stop himself. 

Fick's answer is immediate, and vehement. "Never," he says. "Never." His voice is rough. Ragged. They're all exhausted.

"That was a pretty hair-trigger response, sir," Brad says. "You need to think about that some more?" His own voice sounds funny to his own ears, slow and dragging, like a record player winding down. 

"What do you think I am, some kind of pussy POG?" Fick asks, and slants him a smile. "Nope," he says. "Not a bit, Brad. There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

11.  
The relationship between Lieutenant and Sergeant is an odd one. A Gunny can have more experience than the man who outranks him, and often is several years older; the same is true for E-5's. For the right kind of officer, his NCO is mentor, helper, and companion, all in one; for the right kind of enlisted man, his LT is—while never his friend—something peculiarly close to it. There is powerful current of affection possible between officers of different grades, even while maintaining the appearance of impartiality. 

12.  
In a field by a canal on the outskirts of Al Hayy, Fick comes to find him. "So," Fick says, quick gaze darting around the glade, taking in the shitter Brad's perched on, the unopened box of baby-wipes he'd brought along as cover, the distance to camp. Illusory privacy, apparently, at least as far as the LT is concerned. 

After that first opening volley, he doesn't say anything more, though, so Brad finally sighs. "Did you need something, LT?" he says. It's not their usual banter, but he doesn't have the energy. 

"Nothing particular, no," the LT says. "Just had to get out of camp a moment. Told Gunny I was checking up on you." 

"Are you?" Brad asks. The curiosity feels distant. He's not really worried the LT thinks he can't hack it, so there's that, at least. 

The LT shrugs. "It was a good excuse." He sighs and leans against a convenient tree, close enough to be in Brad's space without being too close. After a moment, his eyes fall shut. Not asleep, just—keeping watch through means other than visual. 

Watching him is easier than thinking, so Brad watches. 

He's lost weight; they all have. Dark circles under his eyes, skin darker than it was when they got here, hair a little longer than proper but even Sixta's stopped harping on the grooming standard since they stepped off. There's dust caught in the corners of his collar. 

There's silence, or as close to it as they get. In the camp, someone whoops and hollers; the tone's not alarmed, so Brad doesn't worry. The whup-whup of a couple of Apaches overhead; a dog's distant bark. 

"You like poetry, Brad?" the LT says. 

Brad feels his lips twist. "This is what you offer me, LT?" he says. "I get a kid killed, and you offer me poetry?"

"If you prefer, I can send you to talk to Bodley," Fick says. 

"Fuck, sir," Brad says. The LT laughs. 

"Well, in the absence of religion, this is what I know," he says, and then his voice changes to something slower, quieter. "'My friend, you would not talk with such high zest / To children ardent for some desperate glory, / The old Lie: _Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria mori.'"_

Brad's throat is dry, and his eyes, all of a sudden, feel scratchy. "He didn't die for his country, though," he points out. "The kid."

"I know," Fick says. "But it's our job, Brad, and it's our job to do it well, and when we do, sometimes people die." 

"You think that's any comfort?" Brad says. He feels angry, but he's too tired to put any real weight behind the question. 

Fick sighs. "No," he says, and heaves himself off his tree. "But I know you, Brad. I have confidence you can handle it." He claps Brad on the shoulder, once, and turns to go back to camp. 

13.  
There's no reason to think that sexual orientation has any bearing on military competence. Where you like to stick your dick (or the gender of the person with whom you're emotionally intimate, since no one ever seriously suggests sexual orientation is strictly about sex) has nothing to do with whether you can fly a plane, or shoot a sniper rifle, or take orders, or be a leader. The Brits figured this out long before Americans did, but at least we're catching up: a 2011 poll done by the _Military Times_ revealed that 59 percent of active-duty respondents said they did not believe they would be affected by the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. When service members were asked this year how they felt more than a year on, 69 percent said they had felt no impact.

14.  
There's a difference between respect and outright admiration. And when that line gets crossed, you can feel it. A subtle shift in the quality of attention. There's also a line between companionability and attraction. And you can feel that too. A sudden spark in the air. 

15.  
"What happens next for you, Brad?" the LT says. 

Brad rolls his head to the side to look at him. It feels strange and stifling to be indoors again; the air inside the cigarette factory is too still after days of sleeping under the sky. "What kind of liberal-arts touchy-feely bullshit is this, sir? Next I go wherever the hell I get ordered to go; what do you think?" 

Fick quirks a half-smile. He hasn't had any of the gin, but Brad caught him last night sneaking a cigarette in front of an open window grate at the back of the building. He looks more relaxed than Brad's seen him the whole deployment. "Yeah, but you're going to get some leave before then. No trips to Mexico planned? No Suzy Rottencrotch waiting for you?"

Brad snorts. "What do you think?" he says, and holds Fick's gaze.

Fick tilts his head; looks back at him, assessing. "I think," he says, and raises one eyebrow, "you should take advantage of the former, even if you can't be bothered with the latter." 

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," Brad agrees, and Fick laughs. 

"Or something like that," he says. "Take your bike down; you ever done that? It's a good trip." 

"No," Brad says, and shakes his head, mock outraged. "You giving me orders for libo, now, LT? Next you'll be wanting to tell me when I can and can't take a shit." 

"If you need it to be, Brad, sure," the LT says, "I'll make it an order." His grin is sharp. 

16.  
(Turns out there's a different attitude towards homosexuality in Mexico than you might expect in a predominantly Roman Catholic country. Most major Mexican cities have sizable homosexual populations, and as long as people aren't blatant about it, they're more likely to get teased about it than they are to be harassed. 

Of course, it helps to be respectful and thoughtful, especially if you're visiting the country. 

This applies to _norteamericano_ tourists, too.)

17.  
"You know, I'm not opposed to relationships in theory," Brad says, leaning against the doorframe of the LT's tiny, over-heated office. "Despite what Person said at the bar last night. I just think they're usually more trouble in practice than they're worth." 

The LT looks up from his stack of paperwork. "Thanks for relieving my mind on that score, Brad," he says, drily. "I was worried."

"Well, sir, just because we're back from Iraq doesn't mean you can stop being concerned about our mental health," he says, faux-earnestly. 

Fick laughs. "Well, then, Brad," he says, and leans back in his chair. "Glad to hear it. The interested portion of the Oceanside population will be glad to hear it, too, I'm sure."

"Screw that," Brad says. "I don't need another pretty blond surfer girl. What the fuck would a civilian know about my life?" 

"All right, no surfer girls or useless civilians, got it," Fick says, amused. "Kind of narrows your options, though." 

"Not entirely," Brad says. "I'm just selective." 

Fick laughs. "I'll keep it in mind, Brad," he says. "Now, if there's nothing else you feel a pressing need to share…?" He raises an inquiring eyebrow.

"No, sir," Brad says. "I'll see you later."

"That you will, Sergeant," Fick agrees, and it sounds like a promise. "Til then, get out of here and let me get some work done." 

"Yes, sir," Brad says, and lets the door fall shut behind him as he jogs out into the warm California sunshine. 

**Author's Note:**

> Brad paraphrases Alfred, Lord Tennyson's [Charge of the Light Brigade](http://www.ram.org/contrib/the_charge_of_the_light_brigade.html). Nate quotes Wilfred Owen's [Dulce et Decorum Est](http://poetry.about.com/library/weekly/blwowenwar.htm) (as does my summary).
> 
> Chemm80 has recorded a podfic of this story, which is available [here.](http://www.audiofic.jinjurly.com/love-song-in-seventeen-parts-for-narrator-and-chorus-of-marines)


End file.
